


A Lift Home?

by Aliada



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Annoyed Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Poor Burned Feet, Gap Filler, Gen, Mentions of Holy Water, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Slight Drama, Soft bickering, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26193649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliada/pseuds/Aliada
Summary: Crowley's burning feet and an 80-year old unresolved disagreement don't exactly contribute to a comfortable trip.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 95





	A Lift Home?

**Author's Note:**

> Post-1941 scene. Crowley gives Aziraphale a lift home.
> 
> This is my first attempt at a Good Omens story. Not chronologically, because there is an earlier piece sitting in my folder, but this one begged to be finished and published, so I decided to take the risk :D

"An unguarded font-full of Holy Water?" Aziraphale said in a pointed tone.

Crowley gave him what he thought to be his best grimace until Aziraphale relented and let him go back to driving.

Crowley, in turn, let his facial muscles relax. He could still sense Aziraphale's disquiet and knew that this conversation was far from over.

And if he gripped his wheel a little tighter than usual, it was only because his fingers needed a little exercise.

Aziraphale, his posture rigid and his shoulders tense, kept throwing him sideways glances. Crolwey suddenly wished for one more pair of sunglasses. The thought made him feel ridiculous, so he focused on the flickering lights outside. He was now driving fast enough so they transformed into a indistinguishable mass of spots. He was speeding. And the angel hasn't said a word about it.

Crowley refused to give a name to his next feeling. Not feeling it, however, was more of a problem.

At a particularly sharp turn, Aziraphale squeezed himself deeper into his seat and let out a slight flinch.

Crowley gave more attention to the brakes. He was still speeding, but it no longer had a point-making ring to it.

He wasn’t entirely sure what point he was making to begin with, but, all points aside, he made the mistake of glancing at the angel’s clenching fingers and felt himself soften.

The Bentley seemed confused as well. It generally fared better with music. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if it was one of his influences, or if she’d just influenced herself and then him, by extension.

He considered putting something on but, after a few fruitless seconds, realized that he had no idea what that something could be. Bach was out. His mood was uncertain enough. He could probably do with hard and fast (the harder and faster the better), but he didn’t think Aziraphale would appreciate that. And there was no point in needling him further.

“You don’t usually seem to have a problem with that,” his consciousness reminded him, helpfully. He told it to shut up.

 _An unguarded font-full of Holy Water_. Mimicking Aziraphale voice in his mind was far less fun, but it distracted him from a dull pounding in his head.

The mere idea of music seemed ridiculous now. What he needed was a couple of painkillers and a long snooze. Or better yet, a bottle of wine and a coma.

It was a pity he didn’t have a bottle with him when they were in the church. Such a wasted opportunity. He refused to listen to the scolding voice in his head telling him that it would be a height of stupidity to even approach Holy Water with than plan in mind. Crowley tried to mimic the voice again, but then decided he simply didn’t have the energy.

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale sounded much more cautious now. As if he was handling something fragile. The urge to answer was battling fiercely with Crowley’s resolve not to.

“Look at me, please,”

He wasn’t sure how the angel did it, but his voice was now wrapping around Сrowley like a…

“I’m driving,” he grumbled, successfully cutting off the thought.

“Please,” Aziraphale intoned.

A quick half-glance later, his face changed into something Crowley couldn’t give a name to.

“You’re in pain,” his angel said, in a ridiculously soft, sad voice.

Pain? Oh yeah, his feet. They were burning, but it was nothing more than a background sensation. He would take care of them when he got home. Or he would just leave them as they are. It didn’t really matter. Now that he became aware of it, the pain began numbing other unwelcomed things in his head. It wasn’t exactly relief, but it was decently close to one.

He wasn’t sure which of the noncommittal groans he gave as a response, but Aziraphale seemed to let it go.

“Please promise me something,” he said instead, and Crowley found himself really disliking the sound of it.

He communicated his confusion with a frown.

Aziraphale sighed, somehow making his voice even softer.

“Promise me you won’t put yourself in danger. Not intentionally at least,” he hurried to add.

Crowley couldn’t stop a huff from escaping.

“Like you did today?”

Now Aziraphale was wearing a frown of his own.

“Don’t change the… Anyway, I was only completing my assignment.”

“An assignment? Seriously? Do you really expect me to believe that Heaven cares about a couple of Nazis?”

Aziraphale sighed, sounding almost petulant, and it was all Crowley needed to hear.

“The Bastille wasn’t enough, was it? But yeah, I suppose you wanted to try chaining up after being chained up. Why not have all the fun you can, right?” he went on, surprised at the sharpness in his voice.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried out, in an indignant tone.

If he expected to hear something along the lines of “I never asked you to come and save me”, it didn’t follow. And Crowley couldn’t deny his relief at the existence of that fact.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “You know, feet and all.”

Aziraphale gave him an assessing glance.

“No. I’m afraid your feet have nothing to do with it, my dear. Your ridiculous temper is more than qualified for the job.”

Crowley found himself falling into a sulky silence, which, by some (neither angelic nor demonic) miracle was also rather comforting.

Aziraphale, if his relaxed posture was anything to go by, apparently felt the same way. Crowley focused on the quieting burning in his feet and let it lull him to a surprisingly relaxed state.

The darkness of the bookshop was instantly visible among the bubbling sea of lights. Crowley brought the Bentley to an abrupt halt, which, judging by Aziraphale’s vaguely grateful look, was probably less abrupt than usual.

The angel released a slightly relieved sigh and looked around, as if to make sure that there were no books lying around and he had all of them safely tucked away under his arm. Now that Crowley didn’t have to watch the road, he could allow himself the full-on indulgence of an amused look.

“Well, I’ve nearly lost them once, so…” Aziraphale fussed.

“Only once?” Crowley asked, in a tone of genuine surprise.

Aziraphale fussed some more, this time wordlessly.

Crowley took a pity on him and made a show of checking at the back.

“No lost books here, angel.”

Aziraphale swallowed slowly and nodded with a strange expression on his face.

“Thank you,” he said, finally.

“Yeah, we’ve gone over that one already,” Crowley answered, trying to sound neutral. What came out of his mouth could hardly be defined as such.

“Yes. And I’m yet to hear a proper response from you,” Aziraphale quipped.

“You won’t.”

Aziraphale gave him a mildly chiding look.

“Still-” the angel paused, suddenly uncomfortable. “Well, you know.”

Crowley nodded.

“And you… I mean, just call me if you need me. I might not always… be in the area.“

Aziraphale nodded in response (too eagerly for Crowley’s taste) and cleared his throat. Crowley wasn’t sure if there was more to be said, but he didn’t have to be the one to rush things, did he? Anyway, Aziraphale never had any trouble making his intentions known, so…

There was a short moment of easy silence. 

“Can I help you with-“ Aziraphale said, almost tentatively, with a meaningful look at Crowley’s feet.

For a moment, Crowley imagined saying yes, going into the shop with the angel, settling comfortably on the sofa and letting his mind become fuzzier and fuzzier with every glass of wine. He made himself focus on Aziraphale’s eyes.

Kindness. Sympathy. But also uncertainty.

Crowley felt a sudden flush of embarrassment he couldn’t explain.

He thought of the burning piece of paper in the pond, of Aziraphale’s desperate expression that accompanied it.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m good.”

Uncertainty grew in size and turned into soft, but restrained sadness.

Crowley turned away and looked at his hands. He suddenly wanted to be in a hurry.

Aziraphale’s fingers brushed at his and Crowley had to make a conscious effort to stop any noises from escaping his mouth. As it was timed perfectly with Aziraphale trying to get out of the car, it could easily be labeled as an accident.

“Well, I’ll be off then,” Aziraphale said, completely redundantly, both of them now inhaling cold air outside.

Crowley made a noncommittal sound, putting a careful pressure on his feet.

“Apparently, no more “chaining up” for me for… about 150 years, is it?” Aziraphale asked with a sudden smile.

Crowley inhaled too much cold air and had to get it out of his system by coughing.

“Try a thousand, angel. I would be perfectly fine with only doing this once a millennium.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said again, the leftover mirth in his eyes turning into something more serious.

“Yeah?”

The angel gave him a pointed look.

Crowley winced slightly at the residual pain in his feet and sighed.

“Ughh. Yes, alright. No self-inflicted harm, I promise.”

“Are you sure you don’t want-“ Aziraphale began, his expression perfectly earnest.

This time, Crowley didn’t stop to consider what he wanted. He knew that well enough by now. Instead he shook his head “no”, resisted the urge to mirror Aziraphale’s brushing motion from earlier and insisted on opening the door for him instead.

As the angel disappeared inside and the shop came to life, Crowley stood a little more on his burning (now mostly burning with cold) feet, one of Bach’s gloomy symphonies playing in his head.

Finally, he got in the car, put on some Queen, listened to the increasingly contented noises from the Bentley and drove off, feeling more settled than he had in months.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is welcome :)
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://z-aliada.tumblr.com/)


End file.
